


Sounds With a Rifle Shot

by Fire_Sign



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, MFMM Year of Quotes, that bloody Montparnasse kiss rant has earnt itself a fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-26
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-29 19:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16750381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fire_Sign/pseuds/Fire_Sign
Summary: In the aftermath of the Sanderson-Fletcher case, Jack stops by Wardlow to discuss a past transgression.November's Year of Quote fic, using the quotes from Montale and F. Sott Fitzgerald.





	Sounds With a Rifle Shot

**Author's Note:**

> So, some of you might possibly have been witness to my... vigorous opinions about the kiss in Murder in Montparnasse, which I consider to be one of the few writing missteps the show made in developing the Phrack relationship. It makes no sense in universe or on a textual level, and they usually do a much better job of subverting problematic tropes. So when aurora_australis suggested it might be cleansing to fic Phrack discussing the kiss at a later date, the idea was really appealing. Then two of this month's quotes lent themselves to the idea: part of Montale's quote, " _The heart that disdains all motion/occasionally is convulsed by a jolt./As sometimes the stillness of the country/sounds with a rifle shot._ " very much reminded me after that moment after the kiss, and Fitzgerald's exchange (below) from The Great Gatsby about careful and careless people inspired how the discussion came to pass.
>
>> ‘I am careful.’  
> 'No, you’re not…Suppose you met somebody just as careless as yourself.’  
> 'I hope I never will,’ she answered. 'I hate careless people. That’s why I like you.’  
> ― F. Scott FITZGERALD, The Great Gatsby 

There was a knock at the door; too late to be business, rather early to be pleasure, and distinctive enough to be both. Phryne rose from the chaise, and silently gestured to Mr Butler that she would answer it herself. He nodded his head and retreated back to the kitchen, no doubt already planning what delicacies he could produce on short notice. Phryne herself moved towards the front door, trying not to question the flutter of nerves in her stomach.

“Jack!” she said happily as the door swung open, then felt her smile drop; he looked dreadful. “Come in, can I take your hat?”

He slipped off both hat and coat and hesitated to hand it over; a brief hesitation, but she was sensitive to those sorts of things. How could be possibly be uncertain of his welcome in her home? She thought they’d laid that particular worry to rest a few weeks earlier, after a late night visit and a kiss that wasn’t to be. Not that she’d seen him since, but they were both busy. She took the items and hung them up, realising as she turned that he hadn’t spoken.

“Why don’t you come in and take a seat?” she said, motioning towards the parlour. “I believe Mr. Butler just put the kettle on for tea.”

He shifted uncertainly, but nodded and moved with a heavy tread towards the parlour doors. He glanced around the room as if seeing it, truly seeing it, for the first time, and the niggling feeling in Phryne’s gut twisted into something darker. Whatever it was that had driven him to her doorstep was not the hopeful note on which they had last parted.

Taking a seat in a chair, he looked his hands instead of her.

“I wasn’t expecting you, inspector,” she said, aiming for a light teasing that would draw some of the weight from his shoulders.

“I won’t be long,” he said, “if you have plans.”

“No,” she said, then decided to be honest. “I was contemplating dancing, but…” she moved to the side to grab the draughts board and began to lay it out, “I’m not particularly in the mood.”

He looked up at her then, and the shocking blue of his eyes and the pain beneath it took her breath away.

“Have you eaten?” she asked, retreating to familiar ground.

His lips twisted into a facsimile of a smile. “Not since lunch.”

“Well, we can’t be having that,” she said. “Let me speak with Mr. Butler.”

She quickly headed into the kitchen, where Mr. Butler was assembling a tray.

“You are an angel,” she said fondly. “The inspector seems… unlike himself.”

Mr. Butler nodded in agreement; Phryne didn’t even begin to question how he’d formed an opinion on that matter. 

“I thought, perhaps, once I had made sufficient preparations for your evening I might take in a picture,” he said. “I believe _The Kid Stakes_ are showing once more.”

While Mr. Butler was a continual source of surprise, somehow Phryne felt this was a step too far even for him. If that was the best excuse he could conjure, Jack’s uncharacteristic behaviour must have struck even him. 

“I am sure we could spare you,” she said. “Enjoy the film.”

When she returned to the parlour, Jack was worrying a playing piece absently, his body tense as if ready to flee. Well, there would be no having that.

“He’s preparing sandwiches,” Phryne said. “As well as an absurd variety of biscuits. I do believe Mr. Butler likes you, Jack.”

She curled into the chair opposite him, tucking one foot beneath her and making the first move on the draughts board. If Jack didn’t want to talk, he could at least be entertaining. He gave a rueful smile before returning his piece to the board and beginning the game. They were in the midst of their third round--Mr. Butler had been and gone with refreshments and they’d moved from tea to whiskey, and they’d both won a game--when he sighed heavily. 

“I have spent the better part of the last three weeks in meetings,” he said. “Every case has been picked over by another officer, looking for…” 

He sighed again.

“Mistakes,” Phryne finished for him

“Mistakes. Poor calls. Evidence I was complicit in Sanderson’s schemes, or corrupt on my own merits.”

She snorted, and he startled.

“I’m sorry, Jack, but I can’t imagine they’ve had much luck digging up dirt on you. You’re the most meticulous man I know.”

He shrugged. “There have been a lot of questions.”

Suddenly, the reason for his presence became clear as cut glass. 

“About me.”

“About you. And about… certain investigations.”

She felt anger prickling across her skin. How _dare_ they call Jack into question? Her methods were unorthodox, certainly, but his were not. It was why they worked so well together, after all. 

“Well, if they have questions they are welcome to talk to me,” she said firmly. “I’ll set them straight in short order.”

“They will,” he sighed. “I’ve heard from a friend at Russell Street that it’s likely to be later this week, but they aren’t telling me a bloody thing.”

“Oh.”

“I think that I’ve… obfuscated enough in the official reports that there’s very little for them to go on but rumours and disgruntled mutterings from some of my fellow officers, but there’s one case…” he scrubbed a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Phryne, but they’ll want to question you about René Dubois.”

The man had been a shadow in her life for nearly a decade, but to her surprise Phryne felt no shiver at his name, no deep-seated dread that could not be forgotten even in the face of logic. René Dubois was dead, yes, but she had faced him first. And she’d done it with Jack by her side, keeping her steady and-- oh.

“The kiss.”

His lips tightened and his cheek twitched. 

“The kiss,” he confirmed. “The bloody inexcusable, ill-advised kiss.”

The assessment stung; it hadn’t, perhaps, been the best time for a snog, but it had been… exciting. Promising. Grounding. 

“It was quite nice though,” she said, “and it served its purpose.”

“That’s not the point, Miss Fisher. Even if that was otherwise acceptable behaviour, and it _isn’t_ , you were there as a witness. A _frightened_ witness, which is honestly…” he trailed off, clearly battling his own guilt. “I shouldn’t have done it. Any constable of mine had pulled that stunt and I would have raked him over the coals, and rightly so.”

She tried to imagine Hugh in that situation, and couldn’t. And that was damning.

“Why did you?” she asked quietly, uncertain if there was a good answer.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice ragged with honesty. He was staring at his hands once more, twisting them absently. “You were… magnificent, and brave, and so _scared_ , and I just… I’d been advised of the court date, for the divorce, the day before and I got careless, I suppose.”

He looked miserable, and she hated it. 

“And here I thought I was irresistible,” she said.

He looked up sharply. 

“You are,” he said, “but that’s still no excuse. I behaved deplorably that day, and I’m sorry.”

“And if I said there is no need to apologise?”

“We’d both know that’s a lie.”

She gave him a small smile.

“Very well then,” she said sweetly. “I accept your apology, absolve you of all further guilt, and will tell your esteemed colleagues that they can dig as deep as they like but they are never going to find the dirt they’re looking for, but I’d be quite happy to raise the issue with their wives.”

“Phryne…” he said, the warning in his voice making him sound far more like himself than he had all evening.

“It won’t do them any harm to feel the effects of their scurrilous gossip,” she said, dropping the coyness and folding her arms across her chest. 

“Please don’t.”

It wasn’t an order, but a plea; a request that she, for once, trust his judgment over her own sense of justice. The weight of it was undeniable. She reached across the droughts board and laid a hand over his, giving it a soft squeeze.

“I promise,” she said. 

The clock on the mantel marked the hour, and they both turned towards it.

“I should go,” he said. “More meetings in the morning.”

“They work you too hard.”

He shrugged. “I like the job. Politics aside.”

“And nobody will take that from you if I have a say,” Phryne said, the intensity of her reaction taking her aback; it was too much, and she forced herself to smile, play light. “I’ll see you out.”

They both rose from their chairs, game forgotten, and headed into the hall. He pulled on his hat and coat, then turned to her with warm eyes; the evening had been some balm for him, it seemed.

“Good night, Miss Fisher.”

She reached up and adjusted the lapel of his coat.

“Don’t be a stranger, Jack,” she said, then batted her eyelashes in a parody of flirtation; he would see through it to the intentions below, she knew. “And if you’re ever compelled to kiss me again, I’m quite happy to be considered irresistible.”

He smiled, then leant in and pressed a kiss to her cheek; it was chaste, warm and friendly rather than anything more charged, but she felt it lingering on her skin long after he left.

She really ought to invite him to dinner, she decided as she climbed the stairs to bed. Just as soon as this nonsense was settled. 


End file.
